He entered in, he looked around, Nor in the house his father found; Then to his mother's dwelling, bent To see her face, he quickly went. She saw her son, so long away, Returning after many a day, And from her golden seat in joy Sprung forward to her darling boy. Within the bower, no longer bright, Came Bharat lover of the right, And bending with observance sweet Clasped his dear mother's lovely feet. Long kisses on his brow she pressed, And held her hero to her breast, Then fondly drew him to her knees, And questioned him in words like these: “How many nights have fled, since thou Leftest thy grandsire's home, till now? By flying steeds so swiftly borne, Art thou not weak and travel-worn? How fares the king my father, tell: Is YudhÁjit thine uncle well? And now, my son, at length declare The pleasure of the visit there.” Thus to the offspring of the king She spake with tender questioning, And to his mother made reply Young Bharat of the lotus eye: “The seventh night has come and fled Since from my grandsire's home I sped: My mother's sire is well, and he, YudhÁjit, from all trouble free. The gold and every precious thing Presented by the conqueror king, The slower guards behind convey: I left them weary on the way. Urged by the men my father sent, My hasty course I hither bent: Now, I implore, an answer deign, And all I wish to know, explain. Unoccupied I now behold This couch of thine adorned with gold, And each of King IkshvÁku's race Appears with dark and gloomy face. The king is aye, my mother dear, Most constant in his visits here. To meet my sire I sought this spot: How is it that I find him not? I long to clasp my father's feet: Say where he lingers, I entreat. Perchance the monarch may be seen Where dwells Kau?alyÁ, eldest queen.” His father's fate, from him concealed, KaikeyÍ to her son revealed: Told as glad news the story sad, For lust of sway had made her mad: “Thy father, O my darling, know, Has gone the way all life must go: Devout and famed, of lofty thought, In whom the good their refuge sought.” When Bharat pious, pure, and true, Heard the sad words which pierced him through, Grieved for the sire he loved so well Prostrate upon the ground he fell: Down fell the strong-armed hero, high Tossing his arms, and a sad cry, “Ah, woe is me, unhappy, slain!” Burst from his lips again, again, Afflicted for his father's fate By grief's intolerable weight, With every sense amazed and cowed The splendid hero wailed aloud: “Ah me, my royal father's bed Of old a gentle radiance shed, Like the pure sky when clouds are past, And the moon's light is o'er it cast: Ah, of its wisest lord bereft, It shows to-day faint radiance left, As when the moon has left the sky. Or mighty Ocean's depths are dry.” With choking sobs, with many a tear, Pierced to the heart with grief sincere, The best of conquerors poured his sighs, And with his robe veiled face and eyes. KaikeyÍ saw him fallen there, Godlike, afflicted, in despair, Used every art to move him thence, And tried him thus with eloquence: “Arise, arise, my deares
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